Craving
by HDUC
Summary: Martha and the Doctor have a job to do, but they can't do it as long as Martha's mind is on other things. It's time to take extreme measures to help her maintain her focus.
1. Chapter 1

**A new offering is here...**

**This is a stand-alone, not associated with any other story of mine, which is quite freeing. It is an idea that would not die, even though I kept telling it to go away...**

**I realize that "Mask" is still quite unfinished, but this... again, it is freeing!**

**It will be the usual, building toward something delicious (read: smut). I think it will be three chapters, posted in quick succession, and it will be a little silly/weird. But fun, as usual;-). **

**(You'll see that there's a bit of a gear-shift at the end of this chapter. I hope you don't find it too jarring.)**

* * *

**Part 1**

The Doctor sighed.

"What?" asked Martha Jones, leaning against the railing, absently tugging at her cuticles.

"Oh, it's the Deloux Tribe," he told her, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "They're in trouble again."

"Who are they?" she asked, crossing the ten-or-so feet to stand beside him at the screen.

"They're a tribe on the planet Quinnus," he answered. "Population sixty-thousand or so. But they're always in some stupid kerfuffle with the Ampys People on the other side of the mountains."

"The Ampys People," she repeated.

"Yeah," he said with exasperation. "Blimey."

"Well, what's going on?"

"Oh, the king and queen of the Deloux have received a ransom note from the Ampys, who have kidnapped their two children, for no good reason other than, obviously, to vex me."

Martha cocked her eyebrows with surprise. "Two children have been taken, and you're worried about how it affects _you_?"

He sighed again. "Ugh. Martha, you don't understand," he told her. "The Deloux and the Ampys, they've been at something resembling each others' throats for centuries. Every now and then, one or the other will rally the troops and try invade, but no-one has been killed in any battle. No building has ever been destroyed, no bomb has ever been detonated. They antagonise one another with threats and talking rubbish, but in the end, it's all quite benign. It's entertainment, really."

"Oh. How do you rally troops, and no-one gets hurt? Better question: why bother?"

"Why? Because they're bored. Peculiar, and bored. As for how? Well, I'm not sure. Near as I can tell, they just stand on the battlefield yelling at each other."

Martha laughed. "Oh, you _are _joking, right?"

He shrugged. "I might be. But not much." He sat down on the black leather stool and leaned back into a good, hard stretch. "I suppose I shouldn't be so annoyed. The reason no-one gets hurt is that they're basically a kind-hearted species. No real violence has ever occurred on that planet, and yet, from time to time, they do daft things like this as a show of strength."

"What are Ampys...ites threatening to do if the Deloux... ians don't pay the ransom?"

"They're threatening to kill the children, of course, in the next seventy-two hours," the Doctor answered. "But mark my words: if the ransom doesn't get paid, seventy-two hours will become eighty. Then ninety-six. Then a hundred and four, and so on, until the kids are old enough to get married and move out. Or, more likely, the Ampys will grow tired of the game and simply let them go home. Killing is not in their nature."

"Don't the people of the Deloux Tribe know this?"

"No, they never learn," he sighed. "The royal couple think their children are in great peril, and that any day now, they'll receive their heads in boxes. The Ampys People are the same. Alarmist. Competitive, but ultimately sensitive. And a little bit thick, actually."

"Still, you can't blame them," she offered. "That's their kids!"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"What do they want from you?"

"They don't have the ransom that the Ampys want, so they want me to... you know, sort it out."

"Can you?"

"Of course, but if I keep fighting their battles for them, how will they ever learn?"

* * *

The Doctor and Martha were ushered into a large sitting room by a plump woman in a grey dress. Like all of the humanoid beings they had seen since their arrival on Quinnus, she was blue-skinned, and had jet-black hair that hugged her head as though it were tar.

She offered them seats, and asked them to wait, then she left the room. Within minutes, she was back, carrying a tray complete with what looked like pastries, teacups, a kettle and some small eating utensils.

She served them each a round mini-cake, and piping hot cup of something that came out of the kettle, tinted green. Once again, they were asked to wait.

"What is this, a blueberry tart?" Martha asked, poking at the rounded cake on her plate.

"Doubtful," he muttered at her, examining his cake in the same way. "Given that blueberries only grow on Earth."

"Should I try it?"

"It's up to you," he shrugged. "But I'm going to, just for politeness' sake."

They each took a tentative bite of the not-blueberry tart, and both found it exceedingly sour, followed by a bitter after-taste. They both tried to wash it down with some of the hot green liquid, but it was most definitely not tea, and tasted to them like liquefied dirt.

"Blimey," Martha said, dabbing at her tongue with the napkin. "I should have brought some mints!"

"Well, I've had worse," the Doctor commented. "At least everything tasted _organic_."

With a regretful look on her face, Martha leaned forward and placed the plate and little fork back on the coffee table, with no intention of ever picking them up again. She stared at the offending cake with wonder.

"Too bad," she sighed. "It _looked_ good."

"Yes, I suppose it did," the Doctor agreed, studying it, still on the plate in his lap.

"This place we went to in Paris, my mum and I," she told him. "They had at least a hundred different pastries, all more or less identical, but for the area in the middle. I don't know how they got them all so perfect, unless they were cloning tarts! Miles and miles of them!"

"That's France," the Doctor shrugged. "It's kind of... well, what they do."

Martha ploughed on. "They had all the usuals: cherry, strawberry, blueberry, apple, et cetera. But they also had raspberry marzipan, chocolate, fig and pear, pomegranate, lavender-blackberry, mandarin orange, and dozens and dozens more... all perfect. It was like Christmas! So spectacular to see!"

"Which one did you choose?"

"Blueberry," she told him. "Boring, I know, considering."

"No, not boring," he said with a smirk.

"As it turned out, yeah, you're right, it was not boring! It was fantastic! I had never tasted anything so perfectly flaky, buttery, tart and sweet balanced, plus just the right touch of Neufchâtel."

"Wow," he said, a little surprised. "You really have a vivid recollection of foods."

"Not really," she said. "It's really more the experience. Like a sense-memory thing. It's unique and poignant."

* * *

Before long, the king and queen entered the sitting room in mild hysterics and recounted the story of finding the children gone, discovering the Ampys People were behind it, the startling realisation that they did not have the funds to pay the ransom, et cetera.

The Doctor asked to see the room from which they had been taken. He and Martha were directed up the stairs, and to the right.

Now it was Martha's turn to sigh.

"What's wrong?" he whispered.

"Nothing. Just a little hungry."

"We'll get a sandwich when we're finished here."

There was a pause. "I'd really like a blueberry tart. Since I talked about it, I want it."

He chuckled. "Sorry, fresh out."

* * *

As promised, they had sandwiches a bit later, which more or less constituted "dinner" for the travellers who never quite knew what time it was. Turkey breast and cheese on white bread with mustard hit the spot, but when they were having pre-packaged chocolate pudding for dessert, Martha once again brought up how much she was craving a blueberry tart.

After dinner, they went over the schematics of the Ampys Capitol Building, where the Deloux suspected the children were being held. He laid out the plan for her.

"Seriously? You're the cleverest man in existence, and this is the best you can come up with? Walk in, take the kids, walk out?"

"Have you got a better idea?"

"Well, how about something with at least _a little _finesse?"

"Martha, I'm trying to get this done as quickly as possible, so we can move on to people who actually _need _our help in order not to get blown up or eaten," he explained, pulling his glasses off his face and digging into both eyes with his knuckles. "Look, neither clan is violent. The worst that can happen is we - or rather, I - am put in some kind of holding cell for a time, and then I'll be set free, after they get tired of menacing me."

"That's the worst that can happen?" she asked. "What, doesn't this planet have any trigger-happy guards who get startled and shoot from the hip?"

"I've been shot before, don't worry about me," he dismissed.

"What about me?" she half-shrieked, half-laughed.

"You're not coming."

"Of course I am."

"No, I'll be better-off on my own," he said. "Two people make more noise than one. I mean, they're not violent, but they think they are, and it would be a bloody great pain in the arse getting caught. So the less attention we attract, the better."

She stared at him in mild exasperation for a few moments, then conceded, "Fine, if you say so."

"Plus, when I leave, I'll have the kids, and they'll be making noise, too. Besides, if I get thrown in jail, who's going to bail me out, if you're in an adjoining suite?"

* * *

The following morning, the Doctor found Martha as he sometimes did: sitting at the kitchen table in the TARDIS, with a cup of coffee and her laptop open.

"Are you looking at the schematic I e-mailed you?" he asked.

"No," she said, sheepishly. "Sorry. I'm trying to work out which pastry shop in Paris had all the different round tarts."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Okay, well, can you please switch over to the schematic? I want us both to know it like the backs of our hands, just in case I get lost or captured in there. I'll need you to arrange for the children's rescue some other way."

"Okay, okay," she lulled him. "Five more minutes. I think I'm really close."

"Fine," he growled, grudgingly. He poured himself a cup of coffee as well, then left the room to pull up his own copy and do the necessary 'homework' for today's operation, such as it was. He just wanted it done.

* * *

Twenty minutes passed before she made an appearance in the console room.

"Nice of you to join us," the Doctor muttered.

"Well, I wanted to finish my coffee," she said, uncomfortably.

He wasn't fooled. "I take it you didn't find your pastry shop."

She sighed. "No. I could have sworn it was on one of those little streets just off the Champs Elysées, and if you had asked me twenty four hours ago, I would have been certain of it. But now, I'm wondering if that's the place I was thinking of, because now that I'm actually remembering, my mother and I had espresso on the Champs Elysées, because I remember the view. The blueberry tart was a different day, so it might have been more in the Saint-Michel area..."

"Martha," he interrupted, turning to look at her. And in spite of himself, he laughed.

"What?"

"If I find the pastry shop for you, and buy you a damn tart, will you be able to let this thing go?"

She bit her bottom lip and looked down, and to her right. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he said, again, chuckling a bit, in spite of having been annoyed by the topic. "It would just be nice to have your full attention."

Martha seemed to think about this. She hadn't really realised how pervasive the fixation had become until now. She had mentioned it quite a few times since yesterday, and had rambled about it in a way that she normally didn't dare in front of the Doctor.

But fixated or not, she was not sure that the best solution was to just have him get it for her. She resolved to be an adult about it, and shake it off.

However, before she could say anything, the Doctor's fingers were roving over the keyboard, tapping at foreign characters, whispering criteria through a fixed jaw. "Pastry shop, Paris, probably Saint-Michel, but possibly Champs Elysées... what year?"

"Er... well, let's see... two-thousand and four." She was being pulled along. "You know, Doctor, we could just find a place that sells some kind of blueberry dessert... almost anywhere. London, even. It might be just that simple."

"Nope. If you're going to be satisfied, you'll need to have that Parisian tart with the perfect butter and the Neufchâtel. And the experience. It's not a coincidence that the flavour is associated with your description of the identical pastries of different sorts, all lit up like Christmas. We're going to do this right."

"Okay," she said meekly.

"So, two-thousand-and four. Identical tarts, vast selection of fruit flavours... a blueberry-Neufchâtel feature..." he typed with flourish. "And a bit of sentient mojo from the TARDIS... don't mind her, she's just going to probe your mind slightly."

In a few seconds, a website popped up on the screen with a photo of the "vast selection" of identical tarts, prettily presented in the manner she had described.

"Oh my God!" Martha exclaimed.

"Is that it?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"Well, let's go," he said. "Or, much more appropriately in this case, _allons-y."_

* * *

"Feel better?" he asked, as they left the pastry shop. He took a bite of the dark chocolate-date tart he had chosen, and suddenly knew what all the fuss was about. "Oh, that's good. No, that's very, _very _good."

She was very glad that he was enjoying himself as well, and that he agreed, this was an _exceptional _pastry. She peeled back the delicate crêpe paper and bit into her blueberry tart. She closed her eyes and savoured the experience, sighing a bit.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, smiling at her.

"What?" she asked.

"I asked if you felt better, and you responded with a sigh of pleasure..."

"...relief!" she corrected, blushing a bit.

"Okay, whatever," he conceded. "But I take it that you do feel better."

"I do. I don't know what got into me, but this is like..." she said. Very briefly, she took his hand and squeezed it, and said, "Thank you."

"Aw, it's no problem," he admitted, squeezing back.

"Even if you did do it just to shut me up," she teased, bumping him with her elbow.

"Sometimes you just have to quench a craving or it won't leave you alone."

"Yeah, well..." she attempted, blushing again.

"And I have to admit," he said, biting heartily into his pastry. "There must definitely be more unpleasant ways to try and shut you up."

* * *

Well, she couldn't help it. She loved him, and it pretty much burned her from the inside.

In those few moments outside the pastry shop, it began again.

As love does, her ardor breathed like an organism, and she would have days, weeks, even, when the love itself would exhale. Or rather, it would allow _her_ to exhale.

She had found ways in which she could be near him and feel the warmth without the searing heat, quietly admire him without wondering how he looked at her... or wondering why he never did. For about two weeks, she had been fairly comfortable with these little adaptations, though she knew all along, of course, that eventually the pendulum would swing the other way and she would be back in the throes of a feverish angst.

This time, she had brought in on herself. She was truly appreciative of his effort to quell her blueberry tart-craving, even though, as she had said, she knew he was doing it to shut her up. She could have just said a quick thank-you, but no, she _had_ to reach out and squeeze his hand.

Which had prompted him to squeeze back. Yes, it was a friendly squeeze, but it was, at the root, a sign of affection. Of course, everything at _her _root grabbed onto something like that, and couldn't let go... much like the blueberry tart.

And she had _had_ to let out that sigh after tasting the tart. She had done it without thinking, but he had heard it! He had called it a "sigh of pleasure," and she had so quickly corrected him with the word _relief_, how could he not feel her covering? How could he suggest that "sometimes you have to quench a craving, or it won't leave you alone," without being a complete arse, unless he was oblivious to her usual _cravings_?

The only consolation was that he had indicated that he, himself, had enjoyed his pastry and had had some enjoyment from the steps he had taken to make her stop fixating. Otherwise, she would feel absolutely awful. Juvenile, even.

* * *

He was not oblivious.

He wasn't exactly lying awake at night waxing philosophical over Martha's desires, but all in all, he reckoned it was pretty obvious that she had some pretty strong feelings for him. He had managed not to think about it for the past couple of weeks, because, as it was, Martha had managed not to remind him. Which had been a relief because thinking about it stressed him out, probably more than it should.

But now, on the street near Saint-Michel in Paris, he was reminded. The hand-squeeze, which he couldn't help but return. The sigh. The sudden shyness when the word _pleasure_ was introduced, and talk of _quenching a craving. _

He didn't know what to do about it, so he did nothing. He didn't want to complicate things unduly, so he didn't even let her know that he knew. He knew there was a word for this: cowardice. But he wasn't entirely sure of his own feelings... did he have feelings for her? Maybe. Probably. But what were they? Lust? Probably. Love? Probably not, sorry. Could it perhaps go that way, given some time and the right circumstances? Maybe, but was it worth the risk it would pose to their friendship and her emotional constitution? He had no idea. Did he _want_ to know? Well...

Respect? Admiration? Trust? Absolutely! A genuine desire to see her and be in her presence? Yes! Protectiveness? Even a bit of territoriality? Of course.

Vanity and adolescent pride when she looked at him _that way_? In spite of himself, yes.

Oh, but fear? Caution, explicable or inexplicable? Yeah, those too .

Martha Jones was a beautiful, brave, intelligent, exciting, all-around wonderful woman, and any man would be lucky to have her. But sometimes, he wished she could just be like the companions in the old days, the ones who thought of him more as a wacky uncle than as a romantic figure. But this particular regeneration had been different from moment-one, and he supposed if he really wanted a "niece-figure," he'd have gone looking for one. Or maybe even a grandmotherly figure - that would work too. But, the fact was, he had chosen Martha for a reason, and it wasn't _just _because she had a really good brain.

So where did that leave them? He just didn't know. He was still quite raw, emotionally, but not at all prepared to discount Martha. Which was why he never said anything about it, good or bad. Nothing to make her happy or give her any breathing space, nothing to break her heart. And as that look appeared in her eye again, the sheepish grin, the worried, self-conscious desire, he adopted his usual air of relative indifference, but admitted to himself that the whole thing was wearing quite thin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Once sated by a blueberry tart, Martha returned to the TARDIS, parked in the lovely and historic Luxembourg Gardens, with the Doctor right behind.

"So, head in the game?" he asked her, with no judgment.

"Yes!" she responded with a clap. "Absolutely. Hit me with your best shot."

"Okay, so..." he said, pulling the computer monitor into position. He punched up the schematic, and stood back with his arms crossed and his feet apart. "The complex where the children are being held is laid out in a honeycomb pattern, which does not make things easy."

"Do you have some kind of portable, localised Sat-Nav device to take in with you?"

He looked at her with eyebrows raised. "Actually, yes. That's brilliant. Why didn't I think of it?"

"Well... I don't know," she said. "I just know that if we had something like that we wouldn't have to worry about all that memorisation rubbish. Do you have a bluetooth or something?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Come with me!"

He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hall. They ended up in a small room, the inside of which was packed with electronic equipment. There were shelves, but they were not used efficiently, and the entire effect of the space was that of having had lots of things simply _thrown_ inside. Probably over a period of centuries. As a result, the floor was covered, and finding anything in there would be difficult and slightly treacherous.

"Whoa," Martha said as the Doctor switched on the light. "Are we supposed to find something in here?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "An SSLE. A Small-Structure Location Evaluator..."

"So, something that pinpoints your location inside of a building, rather than on a planet."

"Right. It looks like an old-fashioned walkie-talkie. It's not extremely high-tech, but it will do the trick."

"Here goes nothing," she said, stepping over a chrome engine to get properly into the room. She nearly stumbled against a pile of batteries as she did so.

"I'll look over here," he told her, himself stepping over something large, black and square, that had wires and metal guts spilling out one side.

She struggled on one foot for a moment, and finally kicked clear bit of floor-space to put her other foot. She bent down and began moving devices out of the way, looking for something resembling a walkie-talkie.

Along the wall of one side of the room, she realised, there were chiefly a bunch of obtuse S-shaped metal apparatuses that seemed to be in various states of disrepair. "It looks like it's not going to be over here," she said. She picked up one of the S-shaped things. "It's just loads of these. What are these, anyway?"

The Doctor stopped in his tracks to look. "Oh, I'd forgotten about those. Those are some laser weapons that I confiscated a long, long time ago. They are illegal in practically every galaxy, and I found them on some school children in the Chet Vire Sector. Little weasels."

"Okay... so, does that mean, since this whole wall is lined with them, and I almost toppled a mound of batteries, that there's _some_ kind of organisation going on in here?"

"Maybe," he muttered, taking a few unsure steps forward. He went to the wall opposite, and examined what was strewn nearby. "Ah, yes, this is a whole section of keys."

"Keys?"

"Yeah." He picked up a round green pod the size of his palm, with a few black buttons, and said, "Like this one. It's probably been centuries since I've tossed anything in here, but I do now vaguely remember some kind of ordered chaos... piles of things winding up together. On your side, there are weapons, this side has keys. Communications devices are really what we're looking for. Let's move more toward the centre."

"Okay," she said, nervously. She backed up by about three steps, moving a few items of debris out of the way as she did so, and attempted to turn around. Her calf banged against something unmovable, which she hadn't previously noticed was there. She lost her balance and shrieked a little, toppling to her left.

The Doctor, as it turned out, was closer to her than she'd thought. As she completely lost control, she felt his arm against her left side, catching the dull brunt of her fall. As he found his own awkward footing, his other arm curled around her waist on the right, and slowly, ungracefully, the two of them kicked the rubbish on the floor out of the way, and got Martha back to a standing position.

And of course, along with the little rush of adrenaline that comes from a near-fall, there was the much more complicated rush of having him touch her. She felt his hand curl around her oblique muscles and his body pressing closer and closer, little by little, over just a few seconds as he moved in her direction to gain leverage. She heard the hint of breath in her ear, and all of it remained with her well after she had got her feet under her, and he had let go. Her heart pounded for all the wrong reasons, and her body buzzed in spite of the inappropriateness of the situation. She blushed, yet again, and when she turned to say thanks, she smiled timidly and wouldn't make eye-contact.

And he noticed. He always noticed.

* * *

With the SSLE in-hand, and the wireless headset that went with it, the Doctor now stood at the console, calibrating the settings to be compatible with the TARDIS, and to read out in English for Martha's benefit.

She stood behind him, and just to the left, in a position where he couldn't see her, but he could hear and feel her. He could sense her tension, and had heard her open her mouth and take in air a few times, in a way that indicated she was trying to say something, but kept losing her nerve.

"What?" he asked her.

She was surprised. "What, what?"

He turned and faced her. "You clearly want to tell me something - what is it?"

"Well... I just don't like the idea of you going in to do this alone," she said. "I mean, I know you have the SSLE, and I'll be in contact with you, but what if..."

He sighed. "I know, Martha, but our lives are full of _what ifs_."

"Yeah, tell me about it," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "It's just dangerous. They're threatening to _kill_ these kids if they don't get their ransom."

"I know what you're thinking, and normally, you'd be right," he told her. "But please trust me when I tell you: _in spite of what they say, they are a non-violent species._"

"Doctor, have the Ampys People ever made even a _threat_ like this before? To murder innocent children?"

He thought about it for a moment. "I don't know. I can't think of a specific example, but..."

"How many times have you been to this planet?"

"Twice, why?"

"Only twice? So your so-called expertise comes from...?"

He cleared his throat uneasily, folded his arms defensively. "Well, mostly from hearsay. Other Time Lords and the like."

"So, history. Doctor, you know as well as I do that history is written by the winners. History is skewed."

"Martha..."

"You could be walking into a trap!"

"Then, I will deal with that if it happens! Like I always do!"

"Alone?"

"No, with backup on the outside. That would be you."

"I don't want to be your _backup on the outside._ I want to be _with you_."

She regretted it as soon as it was out of her mouth, and it brought the argument to a screeching halt, momentarily. She was getting tired of blushing. She had done her share today.

He tensed as well. These little emotional, unguarded moments of hers...

Almost immediately, she tried to cover her tracks. "Because... you need looking-after. Because we're a team. Because I'm your companion, not your passenger!"

He stared at her with a scowl for a few seconds, then turned away. With that, he flipped a switch on the console, and they heard the gears of the TARDIS grinding, moving them to a different locale.

"Martha, this whole thing will be over in about ten minutes," he said, moving down the ramp toward the door. "Remember? Expedience's sake? The more people that go in, the more potential there is for complication. I just don't want complication this time."

"What about what I want?" she asked, following him down the ramp.

"Really?" he whined, one hand on the door knob, body turned to face her.

"Yes, really! Did you even _hear_ me before? A team? Companion? Hello?"

"I heard you," he insisted. "What part of me going in, and you doing the Sat-Nav work to guide me through a labyrinth of a complex isn't _team-_work?"

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do if you're captured? You insist they won't kill you, but you did say they might put you in jail."

"How exactly would it be _better_ if they captured us both?"

"Because then we could talk to each other. Make plans _together_. You wouldn't be alone in it, and neither would I."

He sighed, yet again. "Martha, you saw it. The complex is like a honeycomb. It's ridiculous. How do we get through it if there's no-one in communication, looking at the schematic?"

"You use the TARDIS, and a mobile phone," she blurted out. She actually hadn't thought about it before, but the prospect sounded reasonable to her. When he didn't respond with even so much as an eyebrow twitch, she turned slightly, and folded her arms. "Okay, look, I'm sorry. It's just, you've never purposely left me alone before, and... I just couldn't bear it if something happened to you."

He took her by the shoulders to turn her, and look her in the eye. "Martha: read my lips. _Non-violent._ It's going to be fine."

He pulled open the door, and a fiery blast of something flew past his head and exploded the upper part of the TARDIS' doorjamb in a rain of wooden shards, and glass from the "Police Box" sign.

The fiery something soared, and came to land in the base of the console, sending green sparks flying in all directions, and starting a blaze.

Instinctively, the Doctor slammed the door shut and ran back up the ramp. He activated an emergency shift, and the gears ground again, moving them somewhere else.

Martha ran for the fire extinguisher hidden in one of the wall panels. She acted quickly, and the fire was out within seconds. The Doctor came round the console to inspect the damage, and assessed that the "wound" was just superficial, and that it would take the TARDIS only a day or so to repair the damage to the console's base, and the doorjamb. It would mean waiting at least another day before trying to go back in to rescue the royal Deloux children from the Ampys People.

Martha got to her feet. "Now, what were you saying about non-violent?"

He stood up and faced her squarely and prepared to say something vaguely contrite. And it was only then that she noticed blood flowing down the side of his face.

* * *

He did not protest as Martha gently soaked up the blood from the side of his face, while more firmly applying pressure to the wound.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'll be fine. The thing just grazed me."

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly. He could hear that her breathing was quicker and more shallow than usual. He knew that part of it was adrenaline, but some of it was the proximity.

"It doesn't feel _good_," he told her, just as softly. He shifted his eyes to hers. "Thanks for cleaning me up."

She met his eyes, but only for a second, before shifting again. The intensity and sincerity was pulling her in, and it would have been too much, if she had let it take her. She was unaccustomed. She wouldn't know how to throw it off again, if it got its hooks into her.

And of course, he sensed her pulling away, and he sensed why. He wanted to say, _For God's sake Martha, I'm just saying thanks!_ But he refrained from saying anything, as always. For them, this particular brand of tension was the _status quo_.

"No problem," she croaked out. "It's kind of my job."

She then picked up a piece of gauze with a pair of tongs and dipped it in a strong-smelling alcohol-based solution, which she had mixed herself.

"Are you sure you don't have any rubber gloves?" she asked, looking with distaste at the tongs.

"If I do, I would have no idea where to find them," he told her. "I've had no occasion for them in... well, I don't know how long."

"Okay then. Hold still," she said, taking his cheek in her left hand and pressing the gauze to the cut at his temple on the other side of his head.

He flinched. It stung more than he had anticipated.

"Sorry," she whispered, pulling back a little, letting him get his bearings.

"It's okay," he whispered back. He held still once more and closed his eyes, bracing for the sting.

Once more, she placed one hand on his cheek and the gauze on the cut. He sucked in a wisp of air through his teeth, and tightened his eyelids, but he was able to keep still for the moment.

People close their eyes to brace themselves for something unpleasant, because they want a means of escape. But there, in this room, there were all sorts of other sensory experiences to be had, and they would not allow him to escape. The smell of the alcohol, the sharp, throbbing/subsiding pain at his temple, the sound of the air-purifier running to keep the infirmary clean.

But to his surprise, the pleasant, womanly smell of _her _actually overwhelmed the disinfectant. The feel of her nearby - her warmth, her love, the buzzing and tension she was exuding now - was stronger than the pain in his head. And the sound of her breathing, and the occasional subtle _squish_ as she licked her lips, was more pronounced than the air-purifier.

She pulled away, then dabbed at the excess alcohol that now ran down his cheek.

He opened his eyes to find her studying him, like she wanted to memorise his face.

For a few moments, even though she knew that he could see her now, she didn't want to stop. Her eyes roved over the contours of his lips, then scrutinised his chin and cheeks, as if to commit to mind the exact shade of his persistent five-o'clock-shadow. She inspected his eyes. She had known they were brown and beautiful, but she had never given herself a chance to really see them, to go deep and seek the pain behind them. Her gaze wandered to the sides of his eyes, and she noted the subtle crinkles there, the ones that highlighted his face as he smiled and laughed. They made her happy. They lit him up and lent some extra character. She couldn't help but smile then, and only then was the spell broken.

She remembered herself and took a step back. And suddenly, she was embarrassed.

"Uh... wow. God, I'm sorry," she fumbled, gathering up the wrappers from the gauze swabs, the swabs themselves, and the little dish of alcohol solution. She crossed the room and dumped them all into a bin. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he muttered, now just as flustered as she was.

She turned back round to look at him. "Oh, there's some blood on your collar."

"Thanks," he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket as she searched through some drawers for small bandages.

When she turned back round again, with the bandage in-hand, the jacket was lying beside him on the exam table.

"It's on your shirt collar too," she said meekly. "I guess I missed it. Maybe you can change your shirt later."

"Yeah," he agreed, but still, he loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. He pulled the fabric away from his skin, and Martha, without being asked, used another wet washcloth to dab at the last few drops of blood on the Doctor's neck.

The cold cloth on a sensitive area of skin gave him a frisson, but it wasn't unpleasant.

When done, she took up the bandage and peeled back the protective white pieces, exposing the adhesive. With one hand she pushed back his hair, and with the other, she covered the cut with the bandage.

Then, she fluffed his hair again, which also gave him a not-unpleasant frisson. Her fingers tugged at only a section, but it felt unexpectedly amazing, like a mini-massage. For just a few moments, he wished she would lose her mind, throw caution to the wind and bury both hands in his thick locks and just _pull_. But she didn't. She kept her wits about her, and smiled a cute, slightly crooked smile that suggested she didn't really _want_ to smile.

"If you comb your hair just right, it won't even show," she said.

* * *

Back in the console room an hour later, after a little breather, Martha bounded in, finding the Doctor in a fresh shirt and suit jacket, once again sitting at the computer. She said, "So, about these totally non-violent Ampys People who gave you a head-wound..."

"All right, all right," he sighed. "Don't gloat. Smugness is not attractive on you."

This comment struck her in the gut, though she knew he was just being glib.

"So... what gives?" She walked up and stood awkwardly beside him.

"Near as I can tell, somehow, the Ampys people have either been overtaken by, or they've assimilated with, a tribe from a neighbouring galaxy, the Valan-Millets, who pretty much make a habit out of kidnapping, extortion, prostitution, mafia-type activity... rubbish like that."

"I see."

"But I swear to you, five decades ago, I could have walked into that complex naked and emerged with no scratches. So, to be fair, I wasn't _wrong_, just out-of-date."

"So it looks like those kids are in some real danger now."

"Yes, it looks like. But we still have forty-eight hours. The TARDIS will only need about eighteen to twenty to recupe."

"And it also looks like you won't be able to go in alone now."

"No, _that_ I am still planning on doing. We just won't be able to park the TARDIS quite so close, and I'll have to sneak in through the back or something."

"Excuse me? Did you not _see_ the fireball that nearly took off your head?"

"Again, not attractive, Martha," he dismissed.

She wanted to scream. This time, the anger and rejection, both real and imagined, both rational and irrational, just bubbled to the surface with no slow boil.

"You know what? I don't care!" she shouted, stepping back by three steps.

He was clearly startled by the outburst.

She did not lower her voice. "Being _attractive_ gets me nowhere, so I might as well try for _sensible_!"

He knew that that statement had been brewing for a long, long while. _Here we go, _he thought.

"What about _you_?" she continued.

Heat rose in his cheeks as he got to his feet. "What _about _me? How is wanting to protect you _not sensible_?"

"Pssh!" she spat. "You don't care about protecting me, you just don't want to deal with me!" She knew on some level that what she was saying wasn't entirely true, but that's how it seemed just now. Besides, even if it didn't apply to this moment, she felt it applied to their general rapport.

"That's insane."

"Is it? Since this whole thing started, you've done nothing but dismiss me!"

"That is not true! I have _engaged_ you at every step. You have been useful at every step! You helped me find the SSLE device. I rigged the TARDIS to give you a live readout that you could actually decipher, so you could _help me_. You were right about the Ampys, and even patched up my wound."

"That's not engaging me, that's..."

"You're just pissed off because I haven't given you everything you've wanted!"

Her jaw dropped. They had both been aware of the mounting tension since this morning when they stopped in Paris for fruit tarts. She had felt that oscillating desire blowing back in her direction ever since they left the pastry shop, and had been hyper-aware of his presence, his face, his words and his insensitivity all day.

But the truth was, he was not insensitive. He had been aware of the shift too. He had felt each averted gaze, each rejected withdrawal. He had felt it when he'd caught her around the waist in the storage room as she fell, and certainly as she touched his face in the infirmary, inspected his features and tugged at his hair. He was also not deaf to the undertones of her argument before and now: she wanted to be by his side.

And so, of course he was not unaware of the huge misstep he had made when he accused her of just being angry because he hadn't given her what she'd been wanting.

"I just mean," he corrected, breaking eye-contact, rubbing the back of his neck. "You wanted to come into the complex with me and I said _no_, and I would not relent. So you got angry."

"That is _not_ what you meant," she accused, her voice disturbingly calm.

"Yes, it is! What else could I have meant?"

But the mere asking of the question demonstrated the fact that he knew the answer.

* * *

Martha had retreated to the media room, not wanting to give the Doctor the satisfaction of knowing he'd driven her to hole up in her room, behind closed doors. But she still needed to be alone, so she sat like a zombie in front of the television for about thirty minutes, before he darkened the doorway.

"What do you want?" she groaned, not looking at him.

"To talk."

"Why? It has done us no good so far," she responded, unconsciously changing the channel in front of her.

"Exactly," he agreed, sitting down beside her.

She looked at him for the first time, annoyed. "What?"

"Martha, the lives of two children are at stake. I admit, I was stubborn not to realise the severity of the situation, to make assumptions and whatnot, but if we could just get beyond my horrible wrongness for a few moments, we could look at the fact that we still have a job to do."

"I know that, Doctor."

"Right, but there's something standing in our way. We need to start operating at maximum efficiency, and we will never be able to do that as long as either one of us is distracted, worried about other things. It's time to get Buddhist," he said with a little finality and flourish.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means, rid ourselves of all desires so we can get our heads where they need to be."

"What are you on about?"

"Please. You know exactly what I'm on about. It's the elephant in the room. It's _always_ the bloody elephant in the room, has been since the moment we met."

She stared at him with wide eyes. Her brain was refusing to process with its usual quickness, so he gave her time.

At last, she said, "Until half an hour ago, I wasn't even sure if you knew."

He frowned. "Of course I know. For someone who loves me, you must not think much of me."

"And you propose we talk it through? You, who have always been the biggest avoidy-pants in the universe?"

"No. As you said, talking has got us nowhere. And we'd need more time than we actually have, in order to hash it all out. We're on a schedule, Martha. I'm willing to admit, we still don't have an entirely viable battle-plan, now that we know the Valan-Millets are involved."

"So, what, then? Just how are we supposed to _get Buddhist_ in a hurry?"

He smiled a bit wickedly. "Just think of me as a blueberry tart," he said, then stopped to think. "Or am I the pastry shop?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Some thoughts, before you begin reading:**

**1. FYI: This chapter has been finished for some time, but editing smut is a tricky business, and cannot be done just anywhere, at any time. Sorry for the delay... trying to do this AND have a life!**

**2. I am requesting that you re-read the two previous chapters before you dive into this one so that it doesn't feel like disjointed smut. :-) It makes much more sense in context!**

**3. This wound up a lot more "epic" than I had envisioned! I could feel it going in that direction late in chapter 2. There was nothing I could do about it. It developed a mind of its own, and the Doctor had a few moments of epiphany.**

**4. We won't get to see what happens with the Deloux children and the Ampys people. It wasn't the point, after all. They were just a problem that Martha could get distracted from helping solve. The point, of course, was a plot bunny, in the Doctor's voice, that said, "If I shag you rotten, will you shut up for a while?" (Mean, I know, but that's the problem with plot bunnies. They're jerks.)**

**And now, the trilling conclusion...**

* * *

**Part 3**

The last couple of minutes, Martha's brain had been running much more slowly than normal, mostly because the Doctor was short-circuiting it. It refused to process the fact that she was being pulled down a TARDIS corridor by an unsettlingly calm Doctor, who wanted to "rid" her of all "desire" so she could get her head in the game.

So, she asked, "Where are we going?"

"To my bedroom."

"Why?"

"Because the carpet in the media room hasn't been vacuumed for quite some time. Also, I don't fancy rug-burns."

She chuckled, but did not say anything in response. She couldn't.

When they arrived at their destination, the Doctor opened the door and pulled her inside. It was her first time inside his bedroom, and she was shocked at how neatly it was kept.

But not for long, because after only a second, the door was shut, and she found herself pressed between it and the Doctor. His mouth was on hers, his hands were on her hips, and she gave a little shriek of surprise. And though chaos took over her mind and made everything blurry and shapeless, and she struggled to come to terms with what was happening, she could not ward off the fire she felt seizing her on the inside. It started at her pounding heart, and was spreading to her lower extremities. His insistent body, his lips, his hands, even the feel of the hard wood against her back, it all made her ache.

He pulled away from her lips and kissed her cheek three times, hungrily and in quick succession, leading toward her ear, then down her neck. He sucked at the sensitive flesh there, worked his tongue against her skin, making her nearly lose all strength in her legs.

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes muddled, her fingers clawing at his arms.

"Maybe, but we don't have time to find out," he told her.

"I don't want you to do this just to shut me up," she protested, though, not exactly with the vehemence she intended.

He echoed his words from that morning. "There must definitely be more unpleasant ways of trying to shut you up."

She was reminded of how she had felt then, how he made an effort to strip away her craving by giving her exactly what she had wanted, and how she had been very glad that he had enjoyed the pastry as much as she had.

He bit her neck slightly, and it made her moan. Her body gave way even more, and the heat now settled between her legs, flickering uneasily like a candle.

"Doctor, this isn't like going to be the pastry shop," she breathed.

"Sure it is," he said, now working his way underneath her chin to the other side of her neck. "Because, come on, everyone loves pastry."

"You're insane."

"Look," he said, lips never really leaving her skin. "I haven't been craving the exact pastry in the exact way that you have, but I'm sure as hell going to enjoy it as much as you."

"Are you sure?"

In lieu of an answer, he shifted positions and pressed his whole body against her, making his own craving immediately obvious. Feeling that hardness digging into her abdomen, she moaned again and knew all at once that she would never find the willpower to tell him to stop. Even if it was just a means to an end, even if it was only his intent to grab her melancholy by the throat and shag it out her... she _wanted _it.

He returned his insistent mouth to hers, and pressed his tongue against her lips. She let it in with no hesitation and a new wave of desire came over her as she pressed back. He shifted his body again, and his hand went to the waistband of her jeans, and popped the button open, followed by the zip. His fingertips spent a moment finding the elastic of her pants, but wasted no time snaking inside, once they did.

Her flesh was hot, and growing hotter by the moment, and when he found her centre, and pushed two fingers easily into her, he found it positively boiling, flowing like lava.

As if the thought escaped on its own, he groaned, "You're like a volcano."

"I am," she whispered. He hadn't fully been aware that he'd said it out loud, so was pleasantly surprised by her reaction.

He added another finger, and began moving all three back and forth. Martha's eyes nearly rolled back in her head, and her mouth hung slack.

"Ready to blow like one?"

"Yes," she rasped.

For a few more seconds he lazily advanced those three fingers forward and backward within her, intermittently kissing mouth and neck, and watching her spiral out of control.

Then he withdrew the fingers and instead, repeated the rhythmic action on her clit. Her whole body tightened and she let out a cry. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him squarely, watched his jaw clench and his eyes fill with lightning as she came. She gushed. She swore. She spun and flew and throbbed and her fingernails from one hand dug angrily into his brown polyester sleeve, while the other scratched at the door behind her. Her toes nearly went numb. It was the orgasm that had been building for six months, and as it subsided, it nearly took her down, like it was sweeping her away with the undertow.

She wanted to close her eyes and recover, but she didn't dare. She held onto that gaze for dear life, for fear of it disappearing.

A little bit of her guard went back up at that point, and she whispered, "We can stop now, if you want."

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no," the Doctor insisted with a smile. Again, he echoed his words from earlier in the day. "We're going to do this right. Come on."

He took one hand and led her across the room. She followed, shaky and breathing heavily, still not quite back on Earth, so to speak, yet.

In a matter of a few seconds she had some very complex thoughts. She had spent her share of time thinking about how _this _might go, if it ever happened. She had her favourite scenarios, go-to fantasies that sometimes she relished, and other times were just a damn nuisance. And in none of them had he pushed her against a door nor thrust his fingers inside her jeans and knickers, nor betrayed aggression when he watched her lose her composure in pleasure. All of that was a surprise.

Though, none of it was unappealing.

She wondered, when he said "we're going to do this right," if he was intent on giving her _exactly_ what she'd been wanting in order to regain her concentration as he had with the blueberry tart, then how could he know what _exactly_ that meant?

Well, she knew, of course, and had always known, that her fantasies could never do him justice. Anything he could give her or do to her, that was what she craved, even if she didn't know it. It was about _him_. _He _would clearly supersede any "perfect" scenario of long, elegant lovemaking of the sort she often conjured, sometimes against her will. And, something told her that nothing about this would be what one might call _elegant_.

Maybe someday she would get to tell him about her dreams, how she'd imagined him before that day. Maybe someday she'd get to unleash those favoured fancies upon him, but... one thing at a time.

She hadn't noticed, but as he moved, he had been unbuttoning, once again, his suit coat. Halfway, he shrugged it off and discarded it on the floor. When they reached the bed, he turned and faced her, and in one cool motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and fell backward, with his head coming to rest upon a pillow. She landed on top of him, rather startled, and pushed herself up on her arms to look at him. He was giving her a whimsical scowl, daring her to do _anything_... to protest, to roll off, to move at all...

She bent her arms and planted a hungry, wet kiss on him. As she did, he groaned with the all-over impact, then threw his arms around her one more time and rolled to his left, placing himself on top, and taking control again (as if he'd ever given it up). He never pulled away from the kiss, only deepened it.

The next few moments felt familiar. It was the necessary but awkward, desperate, peeling and tugging of clothing, the next sign that the Doctor was not planning on going the _elegant _route. First he grabbed at the hem of her white tee-shirt, and pushed it artlessly toward her breasts. He pulled away just long enough that she could pull it over her head. Then, she went for his tie, where her fingers fumbled. He eventually held himself up on one hand, and used the other to pull the Windsor knot loose and drop the long piece of silk on the floor. Meanwhile his feet kicked hard against each other and the bedspread to rid him of his shoes. They both hit the floor with a _thud_.

He went back to work kissing her while she scratched at his waistband and tugged the shirttail loose on all sides. Then she went for the buttons, and undid them with shaking fingers, as quickly as she could, without pulling the threads loose. As soon as the last one was undone, he sat up, unbuttoned his cuffs and shed the entire shirt.

He never broke eye-contact with her. The last thing he wanted at a time like this was to have her think that he had disengaged even a little bit. His focus could not stray from her, he reminded himself, which would make things a bit difficult, given that this romp was supposed to clear her system (if only for now) of any harboured desires, which meant it had to be _good_. Preferably, good _and_ exhausting. But it had been a long, long time since he had done this, and frankly, if he was obliged to commit all attention to her, then... well, he couldn't see it lasting very long.

But that was a neurosis that ultimately wouldn't do much good, especially since _this body_ had never been tested in the arena of sex, not with another person present, anyway. With each regeneration came a change of personality, and with that came a change of tastes and proclivities. He had no idea how he would perform! All along, he'd had some idea that this incarnation was not the candlelit-dinner type, and that with the mass of energy, the increased running and shouting that this body tended to do, there might come with it a more explosive and urgent libido. Even more reason to think that worrying about his performance was moot.

So far, he'd been right. He'd done what came naturally, which had included unceremoniously pressing her back into a door, his tongue into her mouth and his fingers between her legs. Then, narcissistically relishing in the wet heat he brought out of her, and getting a ridiculous amount of satisfaction from watching her get off on just his touch. He had pulled her down, flipped her over like a ragdoll, and then pawed at her t-shirt as if he were a teenaged boy at his first snog. Yep - explosive and urgent.

Thankfully, none of it seemed to bother Martha, whatever dreams may have existed inside her head before today.

Having thrown his shirt aside, and now gazing down at her, he let his eyes rove over her body. There were two perfect breasts still enveloped in a white lace bra, crowning an expanse of absolutely delicious-looking, caramel-coloured stomach. To his surprise, he found that all he wanted was to taste that skin.

He moved back, then leaned over, planting his mouth just above her navel. He swirled his tongue and sucked at her skin as though he could pull sugar to the surface. He moaned, and her hips lurched upward at this gesture, the sensation and sound having shot straight to her groin.

He licked her navel, which caused her to moan back at him, and jolt her hips against him once more. Just barely, as he went for another lick, he whispered, "You're perfect," and his hands once more grasped her hips.

Then he moved to one side and repeated the swirling, sucking action, then the other side, then down. He covered her skin with kisses, and complemented them with light moans and whispers. "You're like silk... like a warm bath... you smell amazing... I want to kiss you everywhere... "

He had expected none of this. It was so much more _sweetness_ than he had thought he would fancy, especially after the door to the room was shut, and the seizing had begun.

She heard every word and every sound he made. She memorised them in tandem with each lick, each surge of lust that plunged from a kiss straight down through her hips and made her throb. His actions kept her wanting, needing, reeling with pleasure, but his words kept her conscious and connected to the moment.

Eventually, though, the sweetness melted off, and they were left with the bare bones of pure lust once again. Her jeans had lain open since he had pulled the zip loose at the door, and now his hands sought to push them farther open. The waistband of her knickers was visible, and he tugged it away from her skin. The creamy, licking, sucking kisses across her abdomen turned to hungry, searching licks, even bites, below the waist. His fingers groped for a belt loop on her trousers, and once found, they tugged harshly, pulling the well-fitted garment loose only by a couple of inches. But it was enough. His lips and tongue and teeth went for any new sliver of flesh they could find.

With the sweet body language, out went the sweet spoken language as well, and the gentle moans. The moans turned to growls. The perfect little whispers became ravenous, combustible and much less poetic.

"You are so _hot,_" he said through gritted teeth, after he had nipped at her hip bone with his teeth. She had answered with a mighty groan. "I just want to bury myself in you..."

_Where the hell did _that_ come from?_ he wondered.

Martha responded with a slow hiss of, "Yes."

"I want to do it over and over, and never stop," he said, biting the other hip.

"Do it. Do it now," she commanded, still hissing, whispering as though all of the moisture had gone from her mouth.

He smiled at the unmistakable hunger in her voice, the yearning. "You want to explode, don't you? You're just ready to..." he asked her, digging his fingers deeper under the waistband of her jeans, still pulling.

He finally got the denim down to her thighs, he leaned down to plant a quick kiss on the triangular mound, swollen and waiting beneath a pair of thin cotton knickers. She did not have to answer his question, because the mere brief touch of his mouth, even through a layer of fabric, was enough to make her cry out and practically hit the ceiling.

Again, he felt an egomaniacal satisfaction at this violent reaction, but quickly realised that he was in much the same heightened state, and that he _needed_ her. All of her, and _now._

He got up onto his knees and tugged the jeans down her legs the rest of the way, and threw them on the floor. He followed suit with her soaked underpants, and was not very gentle about it. He briefly leaned over her and bit her nipples through the lacy fabric, until she cried out, first one, and then the other, before telling her to sit up so he could unhook it in the back. She obeyed, then tossed the bra aside as well.

Now totally naked, she reached out and squeezed the bulge threatening to burst open his trousers. He moaned, and for the first time, lost control for a few seconds. He put his hands on her shoulders for leverage, and squeezed, as an outlet for the aftershocks that surged through him. She took the opportunity to unbutton his trousers, and pull down the zip. She did very much as he had done, searched for his belt loops, found them, and pulled. When his trousers and pants were low enough, she reached inside and found a long, hard, hungry appendage and she pulled it the rest of the way, into the open.

She looked back up at him, and was delighted to find him _finally_ showing signs of cracking. His eyes were glazed over and his mouth hung open as breath escaped in slightly ragged spurts. She watched his face as she stroked, letting her fingers slide over the hot, unyielding flesh. His eyes squeezed shut, and he bit his bottom lip. She fancied she could _see_ sparks shooting through him, the way he shuddered in perfect concert with her touch.

And for a very brief moment, she took the swollen tip into her mouth, and sighed. And he did as well, until he seemed to come to his senses.

"I don't think so," he said, rather gently, removing her hands and pulling away.

He kept a firm hold on her wrists and pushed her onto her back, pinning her down, a bit less gently. She couldn't move now if she wanted to. Sealing off the fact that he'd regained the upper-hand, he pressed her wrists into the mattress and kissed her hard.

When he pulled away and looked down at her, she smiled. "Why not?" she asked.

He smiled back. "Because this is about getting past _your_ bloody neurosis, not mine."

"Is that Evasive Time Lord Language for _I want to be in control?_"

He smiled wider. "Of course it is." There was no point in denying it. She had his number, and given how he'd behaved, it's not like it had been a difficult number to get.

She squinted at him and tilted her head as much as she could. "So, _who _is the neurotic one, exactly?" she teased. "My focus wasn't psychiatry, but..."

"Stop talking," he whispered, followed by another sudden, firm kiss. He pressed her thighs open with his knees, and pulled back again to look down at her.

"Shutting me up?" she asked, her voice breaking, trying to hold steady.

"Isn't that why we're here?" he responded with a smirk.

"Not nice, Doctor."

"You're right, I'm a terrible person," he told her, and without warning, lurched forward with his whole body, suddenly burying himself deep within her.

_This is the moment, this is where I find out what this body wants, _he thought.

The force of it bent her head back and she gave a guttural half-cry, half- moan, just before spitting out an expletive. She was slick and swollen and _aching_ for this, still sensitive from the last time he touched and shattered her. The waves of liquid electricity moved through her, and she felt a sudden frenzy. _Now, now, now!_ was not a conscious thought, but it was all she could think or feel. Against her will, her legs curled around him and pulled tight, trying to draw him in deeper.

The sudden, velveteen pleasure enveloped him everywhere, and he couldn't help but moan after she did. On instinct, he withdrew, even against the pressure of her legs pulling him down, then plunged in again, this time harder. She grunted, moaned his name. He let out the expletive this time as his vision blurred. He pulled back and drove in a third time, then a fourth, each time with more force, mounting the tension, watching her eyes glaze over, listening to her moan.

To both of their surprises, nearly straight away, Martha's hands, still pinned hard to the mattress, previously stretched out in tension and agony, they shut tight, and her fingernails dug into her palms. Immediately, they both felt that tell-tale throb coming from inside her.

"Do it again," she commanded, so he obliged.

She answered that shove with that same vulgar word, guttural and expressive, and somehow, exactly what the Doctor wanted to hear.

And as she said it, she gushed, exploded again with total ease and abandon, pulling at his cock from the inside. And he watched her face contort a bit, her eyes droop, then close, and her mouth release a million tiny shocks of breath.

He released her hands, and they went straight to his back, nails digging into his skin as she still buzzed and shook and came down from her high.

He planted one elbow next to her head, and the other hand along her cheek, and let it wander up into her hair. He buried his face beside hers, taking a deep, deep breath, trying to relax all over. But as he took in her scent once again, he found that it had changed. The usual sweetness had turned to pure sex, and there was just no holding back anymore. To hell with trying to calm himself. To hell with the perfect performance and the neurosis and...

"I need to fuck you. Hard and fast." He hadn't intended to say it, but there it was. A hiss, a whisper, right into her ear.

"Yes, you do," she agreed, and she unclasped her ankles from the backs of this thighs, giving him room to move. She shook from head to toe with the anticipation. She was now _ultra_ sensitive and she reckoned if he let loose now, she'd probably go blind.

And something snapped in his brain, and he let himself go, let himself _feel _it all. He took one of her hands and pinned it down again, above her head, then the other. He held her that with way his right hand, planted the other hand on the mattress, and plunged in and out of her as hard and fast as he liked.

She had been almost right: his cock slammed into _just _the right spot, and almost immediately, her eyes filled with tears and she could no longer focus. Her arms ached with the strain, but she didn't care. She had been dying for this, craving it like nothing else she had ever known - and she hadn't even fully known it. She had had no real idea of what love and lust could be until she had met this man. Never before had she felt that relentlessness, the pure _feeling_ she had for him that she could not shake off, even when he rejected her. Never before had she had sexual fantasies that would literally pop up inside her mind at inconvenient times, and refuse to leave her alone. No-one else had _ever _had that kind of effect on her. Living with it for six months, she thought she knew all the facets of this particular torture. But no - the domineering side of him, now giving her a _blinding_ shag? That was all totally new to her, all thrown at her in the short time since the door to the bedroom was shut.

His demeanour was so wild and unhinged so much of the time, and that was part of what made him so sexy to her. How could it never have occurred to her that that's how he would be when the lights in the bedroom went dim?

Before long, he couldn't hold his arms the way he had been, and he just planted them firmly into the mattress and gazed into, practically through, Martha, never stopping.

Explosive and eager, constantly on-the-edge, communicative... driving hard and fast. These are qualities that described this incarnation of the Doctor, as it turned out, in every arena. He hoped that the previously-glimpsed sweeter side could be coaxed to come out and stay a bit longer on occasion, but this was not the time for it.

Because as much as they were, technically, pressed for time, as much as this was supposed to be about Martha's "neurosis," the crush, or whatever she had on him, that drove her to distraction... it was, he now knew, about his desires as well. Whenever two people come together like this, this violently, this _perfectly_ and intensely, it could never be about just one of them. She'd been needing a shag, that was clear, and she needed it _from him_. And honestly, he had _wanted _to do it for her. Now, he was needing it.

He told Martha that he could think of more unpleasant ways of "shutting her up," which exposed the truth, that there _were_ other ways. They didn't _have _to do this, and yet...

And as he shifted positions, and as she spied the urgency in his eyes, they both knew...

"Martha, this can't last much longer," he said through gritted teeth.

She hadn't thought it possible, but the explosive thrusts grew even more powerful, the grunts grew deeper, and she began to anticipate seeing and feeling his release. She knew that in a few moments, he would dig his fingernails into the sheets right next to her head, she would feel him throb inside of her, he would let go of any thin, remaining qualms and he would fill her. He would feel the absolute pinnacle of pleasure while her body was wrapped around him, and the thought... the _mere thought _put her own pleasure on the rise one last time.

And so soon, to both of their shock, they came together.

She couldn't hear nor breathe nor see. For a few moments, neither one of them felt entirely corporeal, in spite of the fact that their _bodies_ were keeping them high. A sound she had never heard herself make escaped through her lips, and a filthy combination of words that the Doctor rarely said escaped through his. As always, they clung to each other as they flew, and leaned on each other as they came back down.

It took longer than usual for the stars to clear from her eyes, when she finally tried to open them.

His refused to stay closed. He _had_ to see her in the last few moments of throbbing ardor, mouth gaping open, chest heaving, all manner of chaos going on behind her eyes.

Soon enough, they were staring into each others' eyes again. And in that moment, they both knew that their attempt to throw off all desire to regain focus had failed miserably.

He rolled off and lay on his back, throwing a harrowed forearm over his brow.

"All right?" she asked, slowly starting to come to her senses, not knowing any of what was going on inside his mind.

"Yep."

A long pause followed, during which Martha stared at the ceiling and wondered how she should proceed. Wait for him to pad off to the loo, get up and pad off herself, try to make small talk, get right in to discussing the Ampys People and their hostages...

"Martha?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Did we just make it worse?"

She thought about her answer. Then she said, "I'm afraid we did."

"I think we did too," he sighed.

And in spite of her exhausted state, her heart began to beat faster, and a nervous, but hopeful, knot formed in her stomach.

"You do?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Is that a good thing?" she wondered, tentatively.

"Oh, yes," he replied, sighing with a smile.

The End


End file.
